heart, and how hard it is to break away from such habits of civilization. I have often thought it was a mistake that nature made me so small and weak, with all a man's ardor and enthusiasm pent up in my heart, and this wild fancy which would soar so far away, and beyond my poor strength.
I would do so much that this weak hand is impotent to work out, that I seem useless, either to myself or to others. Yet I know in some way it is all right, and I will make no more complaint—content to bear my little load in patience, and when I come to lay it down, thank God it was no heavier.
There has been no death in the Ninth Corps for three weeks, and only one man from the One Hundred and Ninth Regiment ill, and he in no immediate danger.
This morning is wild and windy, with close clouds over the sky, and soul and body are in sympathy with the inclement weather. Yesterday was so sunny and mild, and to-day the cold rain winds are moaning, and borne upward on their wailing the soul of one of our men has gone.
John Bush, of the One Hundred and Eighty-sixth N. Y., died this morning, and he will be buried while no tears fall on his pale dead face, when for the last time the light of day falls upon it.
Men die here, and are forgotten, but there, friends mourn over the pallid form, and lay it reverently in the church-yard, and go to the desolate home to mourn
